


My Story On My Skin

by Ellenar_Ride



Series: Mending Links [7]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mending Links 'Verse, Significant Face Paint, Tribal has abandonment issues, as in: issues about abandoning people, color symbolism, not being abandoned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21730183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: The paint burns against her skin, a psychological phenomenon rather than a physiological one, and Tribal starts to cry. These are the marks of a savior, a knight, a hero, a noble warrior, an unfaltering force of justice and balance. She doesn't deserve such honors.(Prompt: Ritual Marks and Body Decorations)
Series: Mending Links [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545610
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	My Story On My Skin

Tribal kneels at the edge of the Homestead's lake, studying her reflection in the still water's surface. Her hands shake as she pulls the stopper from her jar of paint. It's the muscle memory of a thousand days repeating this same ritual that guides her hands as she scoops a little bit of the creamy paint onto a thin brush and raises it to her face.

A single curve below each eye, a simple declaration that _I am Kazen, I am Tribe, I am Kin._ A branching curl arcing towards the base of her ears, revealing her status as _Honored Sister,_ a notable figure in the tribe. A simple dot in the fork of these curves, nothing more than proof she has completed her combat training. A sweeping curve above each eye, an honor the tribe bestowed on her for clear sight and perception of truth in all matters. A pair of curves like waves that touch and then curl away again on her forehead, an honor-mark for _wisdom,_ for _guide,_ for _problem-solver._ Another dot in the space they leave empty, an honor-mark for _exceptional_ ability in combat. That one, she earned protecting a caravan of Hylians as they ventured through the lands of the Kazen with no understanding of the dangers it held. She shakes her head and tries not to think of it.

Triangles all along her ears, four on top and four on bottom of each ear, for the hero she is descended from, for the bloodline she belongs to, for the title _war_ _princess_ that dogs her heels and stretches out before her, coloring the view of all she meets. All of the marks in a brilliant teal, almost shimmering on her skin, the color only she wears in the tribe, the color of the _sacred warrior,_ the _hero,_ the _blessed one._

The paint burns against her skin, a psychological phenomenon rather than a physiological one, and Tribal starts to cry. These are the marks of a savior, a knight, a hero, a noble warrior, an unfaltering force of justice and balance. She doesn't deserve such honors.

She seals and stores her jar of paint, but she can't bear to get up and return to the house. She can't stand to let the others see her in such liar's regalia, not today. Not today. A roiling fury uncoils in her chest and she screams, wordlessly raging against a cruel reality; a fervent madness seizes her mind and she swipes a hand through the mud at the lake's shore, scrabbles at her face and arms, scrawling Kazen sigils and Hylian runes interchangeably.

The gleaming paint is smeared, half-hidden by muddy scribbles. Her skin is covered with earthen degredation, insults and accusations laid out on her face, her arms, everywhere she can reach, for all the world to see, and finally, _finally,_ she can breathe. Her body feels like her own, and she is a liar no longer. She stares into the water and memorizes her reflection's face.

"Tribal?"

Her brothers are there. Not all of them, thankfully—only Sav and Major. She is laid out before her brothers, the truth of her soul bared to the world, tears still in her eyes, and a wretched, loathsome peace settles over her shoulders like a tangible weight. She is herself before them for the first time. She aches, a dull and lazy pain deep in her chest, and she smiles up at her brothers from where she has collapsed in the dirt.

"Hello," she says. She's glad to see them—she loves them dearly, and always appreciates their company.

Sav only looks concerned. Major's reaction is bigger: his smile is strained, and there is a pained light in his eye. Major's era is closer to her own than Sav's; Major's _language_ is closer to her own than Sav's. The Kazen sigils are foreign, but the Hylian runes are plain to him. Perfectly readable. _Fair-weather. Flat road. Coward. Failure. Unworthy. Destroyer. Ruiner._

Major kneels in front of her, pulling a rough square of cloth from his pocket—a makeshift handkerchief. His wedding ring, so much like her own, hangs from a chain around his neck and draws her eye. She doesn't realize he means to clean her face, wipe away the evidence of her shame, until he dips the cloth in the lake. She catches his wrist before the damp cloth can touch her skin.

"Please," Major says when she doesn't speak, "let me erase this. You're no oathbreaker, Tribal—no turncoat, no traitor, no deserter. Let me erase it."

Tribal laughs—a single sharp, bitter bark of laughter that scores her throat as it passes. "I am," she says, voice clipped, and does not elaborate. "If you erase it, erase it all and I will be nameless for the day, self-less, an un-person."

She curls her left hand around her wedding ring, holds it tight, and imagines it is Zaki's hand holding hers.

"Why are you trying to upset yourself, Tribal?" Sav asks, and suddenly he is kneeling by her side. She doesn't know when he moved. "Why today? What makes it a bigger concern now than yesterday or tomorrow?"

Tribal's mouth goes dry, and her throat constricts. She does not meet her brothers' eyes, staring down at her hands and the dirt beyond them. "Did you know," she begins, a rough whisper, and has to stop and breathe to keep from crying. "Did you know it's my daughter's birthday?"

The silence is a physical presence filling the air between Tribal and her brothers, and she forces herself to continue. "Her name is Acien. She turns four today. How can I wear my sigils, my honors, when I've abandoned my four-year-old daughter? How can I call myself _hero_ when I've left her?"

For a moment, there is silence. Then a damp, rough cloth touches her face, cleaning away the mud, and Major smiles, softly, kindly. "Wear your honors proudly, sister; your daughter loves you dearly, even in your absence."

**Author's Note:**

> Oof.
> 
> In other news, Acien! I've had this detail in mind since I first started working on the concept of Tribal's character: she's a soldier and a mother at the same time, and they pull her in opposite directions and force her to choose. She loves her family, but she _has_ to be the Hero because no-one else can. Still, though. Tiny baby Acien. (Keep an eye out for a picture of her and Zaki later today.) :)


End file.
